


The Dahlia

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mourning, Romance, Understanding, letting go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:49:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6918976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Phantomhive attends a funeral. The butler is not present.</p><p>Sequel 'A Vain Repentance' now up. Sebastian's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dahlia

_one pierced moment whiter than the rest/ - turning from the tremendous lie of sleep/ i watch the roses of the day grow deep_ \- e.e. cummings

 

* * *

 

Your husband has died today, so you dress yourself in black. To spiced sugar and broken hearts, that is what the singers sing. Your mother comforts you, your brother holds you close, your father protects you near. But you neither want nor desire company or encouragement because without him, you're walking in a shadowed valley, drinking fear and torture like blood.

Your husband has died today, so you dress yourself in black. Black pearls around your neck, a black veil over your face—he's always hated veils, hated their unnecessary guile and frivolity.

 _You're much too beautiful to be covered up by a veil, Lizzy._ Is what he liked to say, one hand coming to brush your pale cheek. Strawberries and cream skin; rosebud lips; wide, jade eyes. You are more beautiful than the artwork of the romantics—your flushes are real and so are your smiles. They're what he loved best.

It's what you give him when you can give nothing else, for—very long ago—he'd forgotten how to smile. So you laugh and beam and love enough for the both of you but…it _wasn't_ enough.

Love could not stop death in his fine sable carriage, nor could it bring your husband back. He has died today and you have been forced to put on a vaudeville for all of London society. There are some familiar faces you remember—the Indian prince with vibrant eyes, the Chinese underground imperial, the silvery haired Double Charles.

They have all gathered at your husband's funeral—and you want to scream and laugh at the falsehood of it all. They, just like you, did not know your husband.

Not truly.

The only man who knew— _genuinely knew_ —your husband has gone. Vanished. Fled.

 

* * *

 

Your husband has died today, so you dress yourself in black. Pitch-black clothes for your pitch-black feelings as you prepare to endure a pitch-black life. But the butler is not here and without him, everything dims. Because your husband loved him best—even you should know this by now.

Your husband was held in the butler's arms because you could not understand. Your mortal mind would never be able to comprehend the complexity of their union and so, you maintain a distance because that is what makes your husband happy. It is the small measure of happiness _you_ can provide and even though it's a pittance, to him—it's enough.

You will never know what occurred between master and servant on those dark verbena nights. How the servant with marble skin and carmine eyes drank your husband in, body moving in sinful rhythm as they engaged in a dance as old as time itself. How your husband was the sapphire ocean, caressing and desirous of Eros's gifts. The butler, erotic and ardent, touched the Delphic soul of this nobleman you loved—fingers deft and skilled, weaving gossamer patterns across his pale milk skin, bruising and claiming. Your husband would have reciprocated in kind, opening his heart to this pitch-black servant—the illustrious aide whose hot velvet tongue released the pain your husband felt when his childhood was ripped from his hands.

They would have loved and cosseted and clutched; embracing and kissing, exposed and wanting.

But he left you a child in his living memory so you hold onto what you can. Your son is the most precious gift you have because _he_ loved you enough to think of you in his last moments.

Your husband has died today, so you dress yourself in black.

You've already died once—when he was stolen from you so long ago.

You've already died twice—when his love was not yours to keep.

Now you are to die a third time, in the memory that even in death, you cannot truly have him.

**Author's Note:**

> \- "Love could not stop death"...references Emily Dickinson's 'Because I could not stop for Death' poem.
> 
> A/N: Well, I'm not quite sure what this is. Perhaps an elegy, perhaps a soliloquy. (This is basically what happens when I watch Bram Stoker's Dracula at 2 AM.)
> 
> Feedback appreciated.
> 
> (Sequel 'A Vain Repentance' is now up. Sebastian's POV.)


End file.
